Atrophy
by Laverantal
Summary: He has to realise I'm drowning, that I have been for years. But he still hasn't pulled me from the water. AU. Rating for language and drunken, thus uncensored, mentions of sex.


Do you remember when you were a kid and used to play house? Of course you do, because everyone does. About six of you would get together and two of you would play the role of father and mother, then everyone else would be the children or the dogs. Either worked. Not for me though, because I hated being a kid. It meant I couldn't be married to the father. You know, he once gave me a ring. It was a piece of shit we'd found amongst the playground woodchips, but I tell you, I cherished it. Hell, I probably still have it boxed in storage somewhere. Everything he gave me is still around though, whether they're material objects or emotional scars.

It's harsh of me to say he gave me scars. It was me who made them scars. To him they were passing offenses, easily healed emotional roadblocks. He should look at my arms these days – easily healed my ass. At least now there are marks to document the torment he put me through. The torment I _let_ him put me through. Not that he'd ever take the time to look at me, let alone pay enough attention to dredge up any concern for my wrists. Dickhead. Comes back after a fucking decade and he still brushes me off.

I take another swig of the bourbon and note that I'll need to haul my ass off the couch a fetch the next bottle in line soon. I might have to switch to gin; I don't think I'll have any more bourbon after this. I can put its remains on the mantelpiece. They always look really pretty there. That is, they do until Guy throws them away. Little dick. He likes me too much – which is funny, because really, all I try to do is screw him. Not that he interprets my seduction attempts as such. After all, I'm Priscilla, his wilting flower of a friend that simply needs saving. I don't want him to save me, but I'll say I do. I know the only way to get his dick inside me is to pretend. It's all guys ever want to do. I hiccup and notice that was a pun. Because Guy is a guy.

I think people are wrong when they say guys only ever want a quick fuck. I've met… what? Like three men who've ever been alright with that. It's completely stupid, because the stereotype's my ideal, and all I get are these men who want to help, or, God forbid, 'protect' me. These days Sain's my go-to guy, but honestly, he's been saying some shit lately that I don't like hearing. 'Prissy, I'm a bit concerned for your welfare' or 'You know, Prissy, maybe you shouldn't get quite so hammered on weekdays.' Fuck you Sain. I can and will get hammered whenever the hell I want, and letting you screw me doesn't suddenly grant you the authority to change that. Your cock's big though, so that's alright. Stop paying attention to me and just fuck me though. I don't want anything else from you.

This time it really is the last sip of my drink, but I'm too dizzy to get another. I'll wait until it subsides. I've got some cigarettes in my pocket that I can finish off in the meantime. You know, it's not even just Guy and Sain that say I look like crap these days. Although I've been like this since you left, I just haven't let it affect my appearance until recently. I just can't be bothered to maintain myself when I know you wouldn't look at me if I was fucking Aphrodite. Apparently even though I look like shit I can still score though – I found a prude with green hair recently. It's funny, because his hair is fucking whacked. It's not even green, he's got some hardcore white streak, and yet he must have been high when he got it done because he's the epitome of square. We've only ever fucked in missionary. You know that in Utah it's illegal to screw anyone but your spouse? But if you have to fuck around with lots of people, it's only a misdemeanour if you're in the missionary position, not properly illegal. I told Heath that last time he was over. He laughed awkwardly and changed the subject. I wonder if he'll get the hint and remember we aren't in Utah.

I'm pretty sure it was Erk who told me that. He knew so much shit about everything. I tap the cigarette ashes onto the armrest of my chair. Guy can clean it up tomorrow if he wants. Erk used to do that, but apparently he went and wised up. He never said goodbye, but I don't really care. I'm used to it. The only person I ever wanted to give me closure, to give me the opportunity to beg to stay by your side, was you, and you didn't, so what does it matter if my boy toy did?

Your apology was half-assed and lame. You should have gotten your girlfriend to write it, or your boyfriend, or whoever the fuck you're nailing. You know, you really should be nailing me. I've loved you so much longer than any of them. But no, you, the noble, oblivious, shitty brother will never notice me. My cigarette is depleted, so I bury it in an ash tray and will myself to stumble over to where I presume I left the gin. When you came back, I was so happy. I'm still so happy. You've got no idea what it's like to be around you again. I always wanted to be the mother because you were always the father.

Actually, when you introduced me to Lucius, I laughed. He was your 'friend.' Or she, whatever, he could be either. I tried to fuck him just to spite you, but no, he claimed your love impregnable and I haven't seen him since. I take a swig of whiskey, having lost the motivation to find the gin, and let it burn down my throat, cleansing me of the cigarette's aftertaste. It's hysterical that he used the term impregnable, because if he's really a guy, he totally is. I laugh at that too.

I told myself you were with that camp little twat because I was the only woman for you. And then you ruined me with Rebecca. I don't care what you say she was, she was not just your 'assistant,' no more than Lucius was just your 'friend'. I would've tried to get her into bed as well, despite how repulsed I am by women. Hell, I did. But of course not! I come onto her, and what does she do? Call you and tell you I'm drunk. Then you come and drop me off at this shithole of an apartment and drive off. You're a prick. I was pissed and falling over myself and you didn't even help me to my door.

But I still love you. I still love you more than anything in this world. The etchings in my arms spell out your name. The bottles that line my mantelpiece are the souvenirs from each time I think of you. The men I fuck I need because they're the closest to you I'll ever have. I'll close my eyes and pray that when I open them it won't be their faces I'll see. Brother, there'll never be a moment with them when I consider calling their names out in ecstasy; it's always yours that I have to let die unspoken on my tongue. Raymond, I love you more than I love myself, and you love yourself more than you love me. So I suppose we'll just have to sit back and watch as I wither away. After all, its all anyone expects me to do.

* * *

**AN:** I feel like if Priscilla were around today with no support system, she_ would_ be a bitter, promiscuous alcoholic. Incestuous desire rarely gets you anyplace fun.

The reason that 'you' refers to various parties in this is really just because she's so smashed.

But really, I find her one of the best characters in FE because she's one of the few I find myself hating so virulently. Considering it's seems quite obvious she's in love with her brother, the fact that she entrances all these other guys was always interesting and faintly infuriating to me. I don't think Priscilla's as innocent as she pretends to be.


End file.
